


Slender Days

by stevieraebarnes



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: (kind of), All Hail the Vague New Overlords, Alternate Universe - Dystopian, Alternate World Hopping, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Typical Violence and Injuries, Join Me in My Escapist Fantasy of Despair, M/M, Magical Item, Parallel Universes, Red String of Fate, cause why not, preslash, the multiverse gets wrekt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24278149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevieraebarnes/pseuds/stevieraebarnes
Summary: Jason Todd travels the fractured fabric of the cosmos in search of a lost Dick Grayson.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 38
Kudos: 54
Collections: Airs Art Arch Fortnightlies





	1. The String

**Author's Note:**

> *Hey! I've slowed down on this work majorly, but I'm still tinkering away on the final 3 chapters. Thanks for your patience and for your understanding <3 (05 Jan 2021)

He stood before the door, his hope harnessed to the red string in hand.

To his right sat the kitchen and beyond that the front door of this third floor apartment. To his left, a taped up bay window fitted with dreary cardboard. But for now, they were nothing more than periphery to the task before him. The thread in his hand weighed very little, barely registering in his large, calloused palm. Up close, he could see where the string frayed along the material’s surface to give a fuzzy impression; one of softness and fragility. He could bundle the string in his hands to rub between his thumb and forefinger, crimson red and stark against the blandness of everything else, and pretend he held a comforting blanket or some kid’s stuffed bear. He could fool himself with this small thing; if he closed his eyes and gave in to the helplessness that no longer lingered in the shadows, but blatantly oppressed out in the open. He could give in like so many had before him. But Jason Todd knew better.

He steeled his mind and wound the thread around the iron doorknob — once, twice, thrice — looping a knot to secure it. He took a few steps back, the entire door frame from floor to ceiling coming into vision. Jason grasped the thread, a taut line between him and the door.

He deliberately gave three gentle pulls.

Beyond the door shimmered a world like his, except for the obvious: the cityscape before him wasn’t Gotham or any recognizable city to Jason; vehicles did not seem to exist; and the sky was a thick, vibrant pink. He forgot about the other details of this new world as he stared at the bold expanse, wondering what it would feel like — this bubblegum sky that looked like it would cradle him on the surface of what would surely be water and not air. He concluded he would drift along an endless sea, held buoyant by the amount of salt saturated in the firmament and kept company by what must be bacteria that likely dyed it that iconic pink shade. Truly a lovely shade. Up, up, up his body seemed to say, leap up and dive in, and Jason came to his senses the moment he bent his knees into a crouching leap, his arms rocking forward to act as counterweights for his proposed bound. He shook his head, his arms, and reached for the door behind him. The new world continued to exist with its steel buildings and leafy flora and absurdly bright pink sky as Jason walked back through the door with the string still attached to the handle. He closed the passage shut.

On the table by the door were scissors at the ready. Jason grabbed them and, with practiced and methodical hands, he snipped the string as close to the tied knot around the doorknob as possible. He spooled the remaining thread and tucked it into his jacket pocket, then returned to the door’s iron hardware with the scissors again. He cut the remaining dead thread and unwound it from the door. Jason reached for the table again, this time for the canvas bag that sat atop the scrubbed oak surface. He had put in the zippered fastening himself at the top, and melted beeswax into the canvas fibers to seal out what he could. It wasn’t the plastic he’d grown up on, but it smelled nice.

He unzipped the top of the bag and placed the dead ends inside with a collection of other clipped bits of string, red herrings all of them. They now filled the canvas pouch a quarter of its capacity. The inventory gave Jason pause as his failed attempts with the string and the door washed over him, filling him for a moment with doubt and anxiety. He zipped his homemade bag shut and realized he was thirsty.

He took a sip of water, poured into a glass from the tap the municipality had yet to shut off. Then another sip, a bathroom break, and finally Jason was ready to start the process all over. He checked the locks, seals, and window coverings in the apartment as he did before every string attempt. He moved slowly and with little light to guide him, not wanting to attract any outsider’s attention.

And as he found himself back where he started, standing in front of the closed interior door with the kitchen beside him, he wondered briefly just how mad he was to continue this pattern all day, everyday. It wasn’t the environment he questioned, he was used to strange occurrences from even before. He felt no confusion over the fact that he stood in front of a door in which the other side of said door only occasionally housed a bedroom. But his motives were another rabbit hole of confusing questions, and he thankfully remembered he simply didn’t have enough time to contemplate such things if he was to make any progress in his task. He closed off that part of his mind and looked to his right, double checking the contents on the kitchen table: scissors, canvas bag, glass of water. The bag was zipped shut, as was his preference when not in use. But the glass of water he moved from the table to the kitchen countertop next to the sink. Just in case. He checked his bootlaces, his belt, his pockets; all systems go.

He pulled out the bobbin of thread from his jacket and unwound his red clue, wrapping it around the door handle three times, same as always. He knotted the ends together then took his usual steps back, barely thinking about his actions anymore as his muscles moved in their familiar pattern. The string remained clasped in his hand and he pulled it taut and yanked just like all those other times.

It was dusk in this land.

The thread spat him into the depths of another empty building full of dust and decay and nothing else. The building had long ago been stripped to the bone. Jason could tell by the leftover hard bits of once-swirled glue on the cement under his boots; even the flooring had been taken. He wound the thread around the door handle on this side of new land and carefully shut the door. A high up window shared a glimpse of the darkening sky, but it also funneled in noise of the outside world. Jason heard life, movement: people talking, walking, living. Vehicles revved engines and brakes squeaked. It sounded promising.

He watched his steps as he made his way towards the building’s exit, careful not to cause attention to himself. The immediate surroundings seemed devoid of life, and the city center noises were a ways off, but Jason needed caution more than ever in these times. He approached the door, examining the details as he made his way. The door sat shut tight and padlocked with a thick iron-link chain. He had a Leatherman tool stashed in one of his pockets, a staple for his trips in case he came across difficult situations, but he decided on the path of least resistance. His go-to choice. Jason made his egress through the already broken large window just to the right of the entrance. And what he saw outside was both mesmerizing and disappointing.

He was across from the cusp of a great metropolitan city, filled with glass high-rises and busy streets. People walked with purpose to their destinations with devices in hand — Jason guessed to their homes after a day of work or running errands. They chatted animatedly, their arms dancing to the language in that familiar way of passionate expression. A man stood with his back against the exterior of a building at the edge of the city’s hub, sipping from a paper cup of a beloved café. The cars rushed in and out of the city on roads that all merged to a highway in the distance. There was less traffic than he was used to, and less visible emissions. He stared at the vehicles: their bulbous shapes reminiscent of a different time and their gold accents along the bumpers gleamed in the last of the sunlight. A fascinating throwback to a time that never converged like this and didn’t smell of leaded fuel. 

This wasn’t the place. 

He looked back up at the sky to confirm. Above, a few wisps of clouds moved slowly across the troposphere — a lovely blue with orange and rosy hues from the fading sunlight — and a couple faint stars showed their promise. The atmosphere was whole and uncracked and all so normal that it called out to the depths of his tired body, telling him he could lay his head down without worry. But the difference was striking, too: so different from the shattered realm he’d lost him in.

He took one last look at the city before him to catalog what he could discern. It could be a backup, this world. After all was said and done. After he knew for sure. He could come back here and assimilate. Walk amongst the masses of this unbroken land.

If he could stand to start over at all.

Jason had twelve feet of thread left in his hand, carefully looped atop his palm until the remaining material fell limply between the door and the jamb where it was attached on the other side. He opened the door and crossed back over, careful to grab any exposed line of thread before shutting the door with the finality of ending a session. He reached for the scissors from the table where they laid next to the open canvas bag, clipped string ends spilling out, and fiddled with by some stranger while he was out. He noticed, but he didn’t hesitate, forcing himself to keep up pretenses. His priority was to make it out with the thread intact and in his possession. He sensed quiet, but clunky movement behind him in the bathroom and Jason breathed in deeply, taking advantage of the oxygen increase to calm his hands. Someone trained, but not very well or very long. He had finished spooling the material onto its steel bobbin when he heard the click of a weapon’s safety.

“Where’d you come from?”

Jason turned around. The intruder carelessly held a pistol in one hand, but it was the flak jacket and insignia that caused panic in him to spike. He forced himself to answer in a slow and deliberate voice.

“I live here. Name’s on the lease and everything.”

The uniform stepped closer.

“Don’t try and bluff me, man. No one lives on this block anymore.” He looked past Jason. “You come from behind that door? What’s back there anyway?” He motioned with a jerk of his chin.

“That’s the bedroom.”

“Perfect. Sounds like this place has it all. Bathroom,” he hiked a thumb to where he’d come from, then gestured in front of him, “kitchen, and now bedroom. I’ll take it.” He grinned at Jason like a dare.

“Where’s my eviction notice?”

“Nah, see we’re calling this eminent domain.”

“No.”

The man laughed. “Appropriation, then.” He waved the gun a bit. “Time for you to leave.”

Jason took a moment to consider his options. He could leave, or he could kill this man. Except the man was in uniform and chances were this was a sanctioned eviction, which meant this guy wasn’t alone. A minor set back, but he’d been on the streets before. He could handle it again before he found a new place to squat in. Jason reached for the canvas bag on the table.

“Nope. Leave it.”

“It’s just a bit of canvas.”

“Do you want me to shoot you? It’s a nice bag and I’ve decided it’s mine. Don’t know what the fuck you’re doing with the red bits, but the bag’s mine.”

Jason let out a sigh and held up his hands, walking slowly towards the man and the gun and the front door.

“Okay, man, you win,” he said. He took one step past the man and reacted.

Jason stepped behind the officer, grabbing the arm brandishing the gun with one hand and ramming a closed fist into his unprotected throat. The man gasped, unable to do more than suck in painful bursts of air, and dropped the pistol to the floor. Jason ran back for the canvas pouch, his fingers grasping the rough texture just as three more uniforms burst through the front door. Jason examined his options and reached a conclusion when one of the officers bent down to attend their injured brother, the other two locking eyes on Jason and beginning a pursuit.

“Dark hair, white stripe, tall, muscular,” Jason heard a uniform list into a radio, her accusatory eyes never wavering as he launched himself through the third storey kitchen window he always kept so carefully covered. He hit the dead branches of what was once a bush below, crushing his momentum as he tried to roll with it and run off. He wriggled out of the skeletal sticks and took off at a sprint once his feet hit the ground. A sharp, searing pain cried out from his thigh but he kept his pace. He wove between streets and alleys, looking for his opening.

There.

An empty alley close to the historic center of downtown where a manhole covering an entrance to Gotham’s water and sewage distribution waited. He worked quickly, pulling the multi-tool Leatherman from his jacket to leverage the manhole cover open with. Jason slipped past the opening then worked the cover closed again. He descended along the rungs into darkness and made his way quickly, quietly.

The throbbing in his thigh had dulled during his heightened adrenaline, but the pain flared now that he knew he wasn’t pursued. He brought his hand to the epicenter and found a stick impaled through the denim. He kept moving along a raised pathway along the side of the enormous brick tunnel, counting the yellow emergency lights embedded in the walls to give him a sense of distance. The slow throbbing and the quiet footfalls became his only company until his thoughts began to wander. Instead of the endless, heightened thoughts of _survive, defend, get to safety;_ Jason thought back to the life that was. He remembered his red helmet. He remembered feeling connected to the city, before power and escalation from the Beyond broke her. They all broke that day, but some worse than others. Gotham has suffered. He had suffered. And Dick was gone. Before the explosion from Beyond, Jason had owned two apartments, three safe houses, a professional building, and a seaside cottage. He’d had access to Wayne Manor. Had access to Alfred. To Leslie. Now, even the bricks from what was left of the Manor had been picked through and scavenged. He missed a warm bed that smelled familiar. He missed his books, his weapons, his armor. He missed his secret empire. But mostly, he missed the way Bruce would say something ridiculous and Dick would look over the heads of everyone else just to give Jason a knowing smile from across the room.

He stopped thinking and kept moving, making steady progress until he noticed the tunnels closing in. The subterranean infrastructure shrank before him, leaving him to crouch and examine the surroundings for a quick exit. His hand brushed against a rung and he tried to maneuver his body to inspect the direction of the hand holds. He could fold his body easily, making himself compact when necessary. But his labored breathing and sluggish movements increased the difficulty of even the most basic tasks tenfold. Jason resorted to placing one hand in front of the other to climb, one by one, slow and steady, until he reached another manhole cover. This time he used his legs and shoulders to displace the lid as he came up from below. He crawled out and spilled into the street, his wits leaving at an alarming rate. He had enough sense to push the cover back into place with the heels of his boots, his thigh now screaming with pain. He flipped onto his stomach and pulled himself slowly away from his point of exit, left forearm then right forearm, over and over again. In the back of his mind he knew he was in a neighborhood; an old neighborhood that bordered downtown Gotham that had fallen into ruin well before the world learned what actually made up the stitching of the cosmic fabric, before they were cut, before the universe fractured and collided to make alloyed worlds and brittle worlds and worlds that did not survive the fire brought on by the Beyond. No, this neighborhood had fallen long ago to Gotham crime and the cost of living for dilapidated buildings in an expensive area, bought long before the market decided such value.

Jason pulled himself through a box plant acting as a border between sidewalk and a sad excuse for a front yard. He rolled onto his back and tried to catch his breath, to slow down the panting. He reached into the inner jacket pocket and pulled out a familiar bag. He rubbed his finger tips against the rough canvas fibers in an attempt to self-soothe, then brought the bag to his face. He breathed in the smell: sweet and comforting from the beeswax. He clutched at it, held it against his face and then his chest. The memento clutched him back. He could feel the squeeze on his diaphragm, the emotion choking him off from within. A haggard breath rushed out, and he sucked in a whine — too tired to be strong, too tired to be angry. The world grew quiet as Jason laid there in a dirt yard where even weeds refused to grow. The lone border bush wouldn't provide much coverage for long. But he had learned a lifetime ago to take what you could and make it your own. So he laid there, bleeding and sputtering, a huddled mass dipped in self-claimed sanctuary, until his gasps turned to sobs and he dared to lay there until he lost consciousness.


	2. The Stranger

He awoke to different surroundings, knowing he was not where he’d passed out initially. 

He was inside, protected from the elements, and laid out on an elevated and plush surface. A warm light flickered from an open source, casting chaotic shadows against a wall. A fire, Jason realized. He looked down at himself and saw a blanket draped over him in a pantomime of comfort. Genuine care was never a conclusion he landed on early.

“You’re awake,” said a voice.

Jason turned his head from the sofa, seeking out the source.

A woman stood between a wide entryway looking like she'd been traveling back and forth from the depths of this house simply to check on him. She held nothing in her hands and the angle of her head and body suggested someone passing through with a practiced glance. Someone who was used to another in her home, he supposed. She took a step closer.

“I found you outside, down a few houses. You looked like you were trying to make the hedgerow your bedfellow.”

Jason said nothing.

“You didn’t even wake up when I dragged you in here.”

He tried to focus his eyes, looking at her more carefully. The woman was clad in a pair of jeans and a cream colored fisherman’s sweater, a bit large in the shoulders. Her feet were covered in gray wool socks, radiating coziness and an arrogant confidence in her domain. She seemed to have no need to run at a moment’s notice. A comfortable position that raised Jason's suspicions.

“How’d you get me onto the couch?”

“I set your back against that end,” she pointed to the side his head laid, “and then propped your feet on the other end. Kept trying to get more of you onto the couch from each end. It was a fair bit of manhandling if I’m honest.”

She lapsed into silence, watching him, and Jason eyed the room. It was furnished: an armchair in a corner, framed prints on the walls, a large rug on the floor. The fireplace illuminated the room in a temperamental fashion, all crackling heat and dancing light. To Jason’s left, placed squarely in front of the sofa, sat a coffee table with labeled bottles and paper packets placed on top. There was also a surgical needle and thread.

“You’re injured,” she said.

Jason waved his hand at the medical accoutrements littered on the tabletop. “You handy with this stuff? It’s quite a collection.”

She shook her head. “My husband. He was a nurse, before. This was his stuff.”

He dug his elbows into the cushion beneath him and raised himself up to inspect his leg.

“Could you pass me the gauze, disinfectant, scissors, and bandages? Please?”

She moved around the table, gathering the supplies. “You want the gauze and disinfectant first?”

“Scissors, actually.”

She passed him the tool and watched as he cut a flap in his jeans. Then she offered the cleaning supplies.

“Would it be okay if I asked your name?” she asked.

He tore open the gauze pouch and an irrigation syringe he found with the packets she handed him, thinking.

“I’m Jason,” he decided. Then he pulled the thin, but hearty branch out of his leg and pressed a wad of fabric to the wound.

She winced, then remembered her manners, “Nice to meet you. I’m Connie.” She continued to watch him clean the wound and handed him more tools when he asked. He appeared almost done when he finally asked for the needle and thread. He sewed the flap of his denim jeans back together with it, a black zigzagging embellishment.

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, it’ll be fine. I’ve had some training. Though I’m sure your husband would’ve done a neater job.” He gave her a small smile, encouraging and disarming. His prodding-for-more-information smile.

She relented at that. “He was a NICU nurse. And he had clever hands. He could get a line in safely for even the tiniest of babies.”

Jason nodded, musing, then offered, “Good thing I’m bigger. Don’t need as much skill.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, but I guess so.” Connie left the room momentarily and came back with a waste basket, throwing the trash and the offending stick into the bin before piling the still usable instruments to the side of the table. She threw the blanket Jason had tossed aside back over his body.

“I may not be a nurse, but I can bring you some water and a plate of something hot and full of calories. Any of that interest you?”

“Very much so. Thanks.”

She left again, returning with a cup of water. She placed it on the coffee table when he had sipped his fill.

“Lay back and try to rest. The food will take some time.”

“Okay,” he said as she left again. He let the weight of the blanket and warmth of the fire lull him to sleep.

A plate hit the coffee table beside him. He startled, eyes snapping open, and found a heapful of steaming mashed potatoes with a side of boiled green vegetables greeting him.

Connie said, “Hello again.”

“I keep falling asleep on you.”

“Understandable, all things considered. You need help sitting up to eat?”

Jason propped himself up on the arm of the couch, then pushed himself into an upright position.

“I’m good.”

She passed him the plate and a fork. “It’s still pretty hot.”

Jason shoveled a forkful of potatoes and held it in the air for a bit, watching the steam escape. He had just filled his mouth with the mash when she spoke again.

“You were on the news a bit ago.”

Jason swallowed his food. “I haven’t made the news in a long time now. They offering a reward?”

“No.”

Jason frowned. He didn’t rank enough for a reward these days, something that bothered the competitive side of him.

“I wouldn’t turn you in regardless,” Connie continued.

“Thank you.” He took another bite, this time of speared greens. “I get the dangerous position I put you in, so, really, thank you.”

She stood over him, her own plate in one hand, momentarily forgotten. “I’m glad to help. There’s not a lot of that anymore these days. It’s what used to keep me in Gotham.”

Jason ate and listened while she spoke of the days past.

“Gotham has always been a cesspool, but when someone helped another person simply because they had the opportunity, this city seemed to shine so brightly to me. Gotham’s motives might not have been as pretty as other cities, but they were always honest. And when the people here did something good, you knew it wasn’t because they were trying to trick you. Although I never could figure out the vigilantes.” She sighed. “We had something special in the horror of Gotham before. I don’t know what to call what we’re living in now.”

“A mistake,” Jason said. "Someone made a deal with what they thought was the devil. Got this instead."

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“But I know what you mean. About the Gotham before and the helping.”

Connie took a seat in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table. She laid her own plate in her lap and dug her fork into the food.

“Before,” Jason continued, “I was one of the few who resorted to violence, to smoke bombs and mirrors, but also arming myself with tactics everyone else was too scared to use. Now, my tactics are sanctioned by the new official rule book of whatever the fuck has suddenly remade us. It was surprisingly easy to turn a new leaf." He paused, considering. "You know, no matter who's in charge I'm always on the wrong side of the law.”

“What were you before?”

“A vigilante.”

She leaned forward. “Were you a Bat?” Then her eyes widened and she shrank back, apologetic. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

“I was the Red Hood.”

She sat in the chair, unmoving.

“Yeah, I’m not usually the Bat one invites over.”

“No, that’s not it.” She brought her hand to her chin to contemplate, her plate forgotten for the moment. “I was thinking that I wasn’t sure if I believed you, that you're the Red Hood. But I recognize your jacket.” She took a breath and continued. “I saw you up close once. Downtown, a few years back. I’d been visiting my husband during his shift for a lunch break. I remember being surprised at how patched your jacket was. Exactly like it is right now.” She motioned with her arm to his leg. “And now I know your technique. Your pants have the same stitching,” she said with a laugh.

“And are you scared that you’re harboring not only a fugitive, but the Red Hood at that?”

“I always wondered what you looked like under that hood,” she said instead. “I didn’t picture this.”

“Great. Not only are you not scared of me, but I’m a disappointment.”

“You’re very handsome. That’s never a disappointment.”

Jason huffed out a laugh, then took another bite.

“And I never said I wasn’t scared of you. I’m just too jaded to care anymore.”

He mulled that over, thinking about all the others he’d met who seemed to reflect that same attitude before he changed topics. “And what were you before all this?”

“What I still am. City planning.”

Jason nearly choked.

“It’s why you’re safe here. No one suspects me of anything. I still work for the City, so technically for the new authority, but it’s not a glamorous position. I’m looked over mostly.”

“And your husband? I noticed your use of past tense.”

The fork raised to her mouth stopped mid air. “He didn’t make it when things shattered. He wouldn’t leave the infants at the hospital.”

“I’m sorry.”

She stirred her mound of potatoes. “Me too. But I’m not the only one with stories like that.”

Jason nodded, then cleared his throat. “The family — the Bats — we split after that day. Some didn’t make it. And some rebased elsewhere; trying for intel, trying to fix things, to make them go back to before. But one…”

He stopped, his voice choking again and a suffocating pressure in his chest threatened to ruin him. He took a deep breath. “One was lost.”

“Lost?”

“When things shattered. Between the shards. He fell.” 

He remembered the way the world had cracked and flexed, then ruptured to spill chaos everywhere. The shards had pieced themselves back together in the remaking by the Beyond, but it wasn’t the world they all knew. He thought of how long it had been since he had seen that flash of Nightwing blue, spanning fingertip to fingertip and across the chest. How long it had been since he’d seen that smile, the one that made Dick’s eyes crinkle with cheekiness, with sincerity; one of Jason’s favorite conundrums. He thought of the red thread that connected them even now and how important it was that he got better. To keep searching. It was the only thing that kept him from a suffocating jadedness as well.

Connie set her plate down and joined Jason on the couch. She threw an arm around his shoulders and gently squeezed. Jason had nothing else to do except sink into the hug.

“I’m really sorry,” she said. “I think that might be worse, not knowing someone’s fate.”

“Maybe,” Jason said into her collarbone.

“I don’t know if it’s right to offer, what with the state of things, but you’re welcome to stay. As long as you like.” She held him for a few seconds more and then let go to stand up. She took a thorough look at him from where she stood above and said, “If you’re up for it, I’ll show you where the bathroom is. You can take a shower and I’ll wash your clothes. You can borrow some of Evan’s. I’ve still got all of his things. I think he had some larger shirts that will probably fit you.”

Jason nodded at her offer and then remembered the uniforms at the apartment earlier. They had radioed in identifying markers.

“You have a hat or something I can borrow?”

“I think I have something that’ll work. Be good for the cold front that’s coming in, besides.”

He stood up, slowly testing his muscles and joints. When he found his leg could stand the pressure, Connie led him to the bathroom. She found a towel, a washcloth, and an unopened toothbrush for him to use, then brought him a pair of men’s sweats and a long sleeved shirt. She paused before placing a charcoal gray beanie on top of the growing pile. 

“You can have these,” she said in a quiet voice. “To keep.”

Finished, she closed the door after her, but ended up calling out every few minutes asking if he was okay while he carefully washed the uninjured parts of him and assured her that, yes, he was still fine since the last time she asked, thank you.

Later, when he was clean and night had fallen, while his clothes dried in front of the fire, she told him more about Evan. She spoke of the hobbies he used to indulge in and how they managed his three day 12 hour shifts and how she still missed him. As the night crept on, their words cocooned around each other like old friends as they settled into roles there in her sitting room: Jason, reposed on the sofa, Connie from her armchair. She spoke of how it felt to continue to work for the City and the guilt that came with it. He lamented for the days of when a good bed wasn’t hard to find. She admitted her loneliness and he admitted that he was still looking for the lost man despite everything and even as they spoke they both knew neither of them could fix each others’ problems. Connie wasn’t harboring Dick and Jason wasn’t Evan.

And in the morning, when Connie walked into the sitting room to check on the man she had come to care for despite their briefness, she found an empty couch with a folded up blanket, her dead husband’s clothes, and a note that said _Thank you for everything, but especially for telling me about Evan._

The beanie, however, was not there.


	3. The Labyrinth

He moved slower than he had before the injury — not wanting to aggravate it. What he needed, in addition to healing, was an unused space and a door where no one would bother him. He knew he could do that at Connie’s. She had doors aplenty. Plus food and a comfortable sofa and an income. _An income._ But he would feel obligated to explain what he was doing. There was no way he could hide it from her and he knew he couldn’t limit his search hours to whenever Connie left her home. Besides, Jason had two rules: don’t tell anyone about the thread and don’t endanger others. Staying with Connie would break both rules. If a neighbor suspected, or if an unannounced civilian check led to him being recognized, Connie would face traitor’s prison. Jason didn’t think much of the hellscape surrounding him; not since the Beyond, not since Dick was lost. But he liked the idea of a person he understood on a fundamental level still looking out for Gotham. Even if that person was in City Planning, Jesus Christ.

Instead, Jason stepped inside a new found empty office building.

It wasn’t exactly habitable, but it had walls and a roof, mostly, and he still had the beanie from Connie’s dead husband to provide a modicum of warmth and comfort. But more importantly, the canvassed area didn't appear to be on anyone's radar; officially or unofficially. He continued to walk the floor of the abandoned space. It lacked running water. It lacked a bathroom. Jason resigned himself to cruder methods than previously utilized and he took a moment to grieve the last shelter he had enjoyed for two whole months. He had stashed food in the pantry there.

Further into the depths of the office building, Jason found a door that would do: hung in an interior hallway with no windows. He pulled out his thread, ready to fling himself back into his search, and patted down his pockets. He assured himself his tools and canvas bag were stowed safely, then bent down to re-tie the laces on his shoes.

He ignored his injured leg.

The door tipped him out into a land entertaining a deluge. It was enough of a drenching to keep Jason back in the safety of the garden shed he had emerged from. He stood there amongst the shears and the rakes and the cobwebs listening to the rain pelt his surroundings, watching the earth saturate with water until it could hold no more and little pools sprang up wherever they liked. For twenty minutes he stood there, stealing glances at the sky, full of robust and stubborn rain clouds. And unbroken. This wasn’t a shattered world, or even a repaired one like Gotham. Jason had very few points of data to work with, but he sought them out thoroughly. He braved a few steps outside, the droplets cold and heavy. But by the time he turned back, knowing this wasn't the world he needed, the rain had permeated enough.

He used the scissors he had pilfered from Connie to cut the string, hoping she wouldn't miss them, hoping she wouldn't harbor resentment for him. He hoped these things despite knowing he would never see her again and what she thought of him had no merit. He flung the water of that other world in all directions from his hands and attempted to dry them on his wet jeans before reaching for the string and cutting off this venture. He packed the bit of separated thread into the canvas bag.

And then he tried again.

And again.

And again.

He could feel the connection grow stronger with each pull through the door and he knew he was advancing. But with another closed door after an unsuccessful travel, Jason simply gave an exhaustive sigh. He checked his pockets, his boots, his wound. He had no food or water. There was nothing left for him to do but lay down on the stiff-bristled carpet covered in dust of the abandoned office and attempt to rest.

The next door proved fruitless, as did the next seven before he fled the derelict office building. It had been a close call; Jason stood with thread in hand, reaching out to wind the material around a door handle when a pack wandered in. Boisterous voices carried along the empty corridors and no furniture of merit to dampen the sound. Jason closed his eyes and sighed, annoyed at their timing and already feeling bone weary from his mission. But he also expected this: one of many packs who banded together to stake their claims in this new world. Their profit margins were high of late and this one meant to claim the office space Jason currently occupied.

Jason sneaked out the back entrance of the building and moved on. It wasn’t worth the attention and territory disputes of going up against a pack. And a growing pile of bodies was bound to attract the attention of up high. The game Jason played required stealth and secrecy, slipping in and out of worlds unnoticed. It was a skill he was good at: going unnoticed. He usually overcompensated this state of being with deafening fire power. Showy. But in this world, he gladly sank into his natural disposition of surviving by pretending he wasn’t there. And so from the office he slunk away with great talent.

He had reacquainted himself to his life of before: before the shattering, before the Bats. He became an obscurity instead of notorious. He put those talents to use now. He dozed behind the waste bins of an alley for two hours only to bolt when he heard movement with a certain weight and gait to it. He spent one hour in a tree checking on his leg and changing the bandage with stolen fabrics. They looked clean enough. He thought of Connie and her sterilized bandages and warm food, then pushed those thoughts aside. He moved on. A frequent habit made suddenly harder after a taste of luxury.

Jason traveled through the darkness by back alley when he could, always searching for cover. By day two, he found himself in a strip mall, overturned and picked to the bone. And despite the air of neglect, Jason continued to practice caution: turning a corner to get as many walls between him and the exterior perimeter. The land was ugly and he needed to cocoon himself in its bland, putrid layers to pass safely.

He stepped through the forced open door of a dry cleaner’s — a single wisp of garment plastic on the floor. Jason left the door wide open: half off its hinges and precariously leaning at a strange angle. A closed door only invited intrigue. Committed, he walked further in and around a partially destroyed U-shaped counter. Back, back, back he went until he found a door that would do. A facilities closet, he figured, from the shelving alignment. He closed the door again and began his ritual.

He opened a door to a long hallway and felt an alarming tug near his navel that he had slowly been interpreting as meaning he was moving closer towards _something_. He could only assume he was making his way towards what he sought. Towards Dick. He kept the thread attached to the door as always and wound the limp tail along the handle on this side of the world, trying to keep it inconspicuous in case someone passed by. The location gave nothing away of what to expect from beyond. The hallway was lined with other identical doors — powder-coated steel — with tiny narrow windows above the door handle. The floor was a sticky linoleum, made sickly looking under the faint lumens of the overhead fluorescence. At the end of the hallway stood a safety eye wash station and overhead shower. The window of the door next to the one he came out of was covered with aluminum foil, blocking all visibility, but the others laid naked and he peeked through the glass briefly as he carefully made his way down the hall. Each room consisted of built-in cabinets lining the room and rows of tabletops centered. A large, faint outline of what Jason supposed had once been a chalkboard caught his eye on a large, bare wall. Deposits of chalk dust sat in the corners.

He kept moving. He turned left, then left again, and then right and found another door to the outside. He strained his eyes, looking for something familiar, something to match the feeling of memory that seemed to scrape just underneath the skin. He no longer held the thread but his gut vibrated with anticipation. Jason searched the intangible skyline for whatever it was he could not put a finger on until the time to hesitate was over and he ventured out with trepidation.

He had come out of a building that seemed to belong to a college campus, the only identifiable normalcy Jason noted. In the daylight, it was obvious the world had moved on here, letting something horrific take its place. The land before him was a chaotic mess: a labyrinth of established buildings that had been repositioned too close to one another or even on top of already sky-reaching buildings. High rises and industrial warehouses, restaurants and residential bungalows and production factories all shuffled together into a menacing cluster. There was one way in from what he could see. The building he’d walked out of curved with more collegiate-style structures, tailing out from the labyrinthine mess like an archipelago dotting a larger land mass. Behind the building stood a thick and vast forest, and a chain link fence. There was nowhere to go but forward and Jason entered the labyrinth, his red clue left behind.

He walked through and past the entrance, trying to contain the awe he felt. Warped steel architecture sprung out of other cityscapes like an overgrown garden gone wild in the absence of someone to tend it. Jason kept to the path, looking back at the fading entrance and then followed the twisting asphalt into the unknown. He kept to the right side of the two-lane road, ignoring any intersections in favor of heading closer to the interior. He couldn’t afford to find himself lost with his thread left unguarded back in the closed up lab space. He stopped abruptly, looking around at his surroundings with his full attention, then mentally mapped out the route he took from the beginning of this journey to now — committing to memory his way back to broken Gotham. He could no longer see the entrance, and also his exit, to this labyrinth, but told himself he only needed to turn back to escape.

And in this silence, he heard something.

Motion, like a pebble kicked and sent skipping across the pavement, echoed through the warped corridors. Jason sidled closer to a building’s exterior, despite the way it rose from the tarmac at a forty-five degree angle. He crouched, ready to flee when needed, but anticipating what would cross his vantage point. The motion became stronger, closer, a march headed directly toward him, before the sound stopped. Jason held his breath, listening for the sound to start up again, his eyes sweeping the street. The area was still devoid of life when he heard a voice call out.

“Jay?”

Jason blanched and lurched forward, catching himself with a palm to the ground. He drew breath through his mouth, sucking in oxygen in the hope of abating what cannot be.

“Jason?” the voice called again and Jason _knew. He knew._

The sound picked up again, feet treading the ground with no need for stealth, and a man who both was and was not Dick Grayson stepped into view. His eyes narrowed to Jason, immediately locking on his crouched form.

“Jason! It is you!”

As the man picked up his pace, so did the thumping of Jason’s heart. Everything surrounding him became very loud and very quiet. Up was down and Dick Grayson was here in this labyrinth. _No, no, no this can’t be_.

The man got closer and spoke again. “Oh. I see. Not you. A different you.”

Jason stood up and took a step backward, unprepared for such a cruel twist this land offered. The man noticed the backward motion, a scowl crossing his Dick Grayson face and his eyes gleamed red. Jason took more steps back.

“Where you going, Jay? You just got here.” The man started to trot.

Jason knew better. He turned around and ran.

“Dammit, Jay! Stop running!”

But the voice sounded weird and the gait behind him became something unnatural. Jason peeked back to find out he wished he hadn’t looked at all.

The Dick of this world had sprouted long, tapered, and bulbous shiny legs that had shredded most of his clothing and pushed his torso up and forward into a position that looked not just bizarre, but hungry. The vision Jason witnessed really made the wings that unfolded from the man’s back that much easier to accept.

“Oh, shit,” Jason breathed out, then he pushed forward using the tips of his boots to sprint faster, pumping his arms harder for more momentum. He’d gone a good half block when a body slammed into him sideways. His head hit concrete and the environment shimmered around him before it was blocked by the expanse of someone’s back.

“Aw, there’s my Jay!” Dick’s voice rang out with glee. “Finally come out of hiding. Is it play time now?”

The man that had rammed Jason off the tarmac lifted a weapon, took aim, and fired. Dick stumbled, catching the blow just under the left clavicle and he fell to his knees. The blood looked wrong: a thicker viscosity and _separately alive._

The man turned his attention to Jason, nudging a shoulder under his arm to leverage him up to his feet, and Jason’s head cleared momentarily to take in the sight before him.

Brown leather jacket. Lined face. Verdant irises. And that damned streak of a white lock at the front of his head. He stared at a more hardened version of himself.

“Time to go,” the man said.

He kicked open a door to one of the infinitesimal street-front spaces and manhandled Jason over the threshold, an entrance to another layer of the labyrinth. _I’ll never find my way back, now_ , Jason thought as this otherworldly version of him navigated the pair through buildings and corridors and alleys.

“Down here,” the man said, pausing inside a room. He propped Jason against a wall and pulled out a tool from a pocket. He wedged it under a patch of flooring and lifted a trap door. He walked back to Jason and wrapped his arm around him, luring him towards the unknown. “You ready to go down the rabbit hole, Jason?” he asked.

Jason nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The Doppelganger

**Author's Note:**

> I found out about the Red String of Fate trope while tagging to post (but clearly I absorbed the trope somehow). So, a disclaimer: different intent and motives, but effectively the same in execution.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
